


Going Nowhere Fast

by bobross



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Gen, Glory Hole, M/M, Omegaverse, Taelons, Were-Creatures, tunalock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobross/pseuds/bobross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of little pieces from my hard drive; bits and bobs that won't go anywhere, but I like them enough to share.</p><p>Will probably feature alternate universes, incomplete scenes, sensory porn, and porn porn.  Ratings and tags subject to change.</p><p>[Update: Taelon!lock]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John is a Werekitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short snip inspired by [this kinkmeme prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=102377039#t102377039), which requested John as a werekitten whose transformation is triggered by a strong emotion. Previously posted on the rant meme, now cleaned up for a de-anon.

_"Damn it, Sherlock—!"_

The argument comes to an abrupt and anticlimactic end when John collapses mid-bellow. Or, to be more precise, his clothing collapses: an empty shell of jumper and shirt and jeans, left to puddle on the kitchen floor with a pathetic _fwump_ of displaced air.

Sherlock rounds the table, lips pursed in speculation. "That wasn't even a challenge, John," he murmurs. "You ought to know better by now, surely?"

The pile of clothing stirs, one trouser leg flopping seemingly of its own will as a small lump travels down the denim tunnel. A sock is pushed from beneath the hem, followed by a tiny pink nose and a mewling mouth.

Sherlock doesn't hesitate. He crouches and easily frees the struggling creature, cupping it in one hand and bringing up to his eye-level. "My apologies," he says with a faint smile. "That must have been disconcerting."

The kitten scrabbles at his hand and sinks harmless milk-teeth into the closest knuckle, clearly displeased. Sherlock absently rubs the fingers of his free hand between the little beast's ears as he rises to his feet, turning back to the source of the argument. Strictly speaking, the giant aquarium occupying the entirety of the kitchen table isn't relevant to a case, but Sherlock can think of no better way to observe the feeding patterns of piranha on a human torso.

"You didn't even get to tell me what, exactly, you object to," Sherlock complains mildly, cupping the kitten against his chest. He's learned that John is less likely to dig his claws into flesh and clothing when he feels secure. "Is it the aquarium itself, or the torso? Or the fact that the torso still has a head?" A pause. "I suppose your date's reaction might have been a factor, as well." 

The panicked screech is still echoing in Sherlock's ears, long after the girl herself has fled.


	2. John is a Bucket of Omega Sass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short snip set in an unexplained omega!verse variant. John gives a blowjob and exactly zero fucks.

The dirty truth is that John loves fucking with alphas.

Oh, he enjoys plain fucking them, certainly. He has to be careful about it, given most alphas' tendency to lose their tiny little minds in the presence of active Om+ pheromones. Scent-neutralizing soap and deodorant, a spritz of subtle cologne, and he's all set for public interaction. So long as he doesn't paint a glaring plus-sign on his forehead, there's nothing to give him away as an omega pos. (John makes a point of observing Ash Wednesday every year, with cheeky apologies to the Beta Jesus.)

But more to the point: John likes cock. Alpha, beta, male or female, he's not too picky about the arrangement of bits. Alphas tend to be the best endowed. Betas keep their wits when the scent-suppression fails. Women are probably his favorite, in general. There's not much better than a fat prick plunged between his thighs and soft breasts in his hands.

When it comes to fucking _with_ his partners, though, alphas make the very best targets. Their brains migrate to their gigantic dicks with the slightest encouragement. Twitchier specimens have been known to sprint from zero to orgasm in sixty seconds. John's personal best is a minute and a half. That poor alpha was so embarrassed, John felt obligated to spend all night making it up to her.

John doesn't always fuck with his alpha partners. Usually he's provoked into it.

Today, for instance—he's knelt on the floor of a public toilet, giving some good old-fashioned head through the taped hole in the cubicle wall. It's not something he indulges in very often. He'd been having a piss and his unseen neighbor had signaled interest, to which John's only thought was, _why the hell not?_ He couldn't regret his favorable response when a sizeable alpha prick was tucked through the gap. It's just lucky he carries rubbers in size A-X.

He's pleasured the stranger to full erection when he hears the sigh. It's not a lustful sound. It's not even contented. John would swear that was something like impatience, and not in the _fuck yes more now_ sense.

If he didn't know better, he'd suspect he was boring his faceless partner.

He pulls off with a wet _pop_ and contemplates the flesh cradled in his spit-soaked hand. It's a fairly impressive piece, even to his practiced eye. There's more length than brute girth. The glans is plump, inviting beneath the latex. John gives it a slow, generous pump, then releases his hold entirely and watches the shaft bounce. It's taut and eager. Definitely not bored, this cock.

Beyond the partition, there's a slight scrape of shoes and fabric. Weight shifting. Another low exhale, this one not quite as loud, but just as pointed.

 _Bloody hell_ , John thinks in amazement. _He **is** bored._

It's as good a provocation as any other. John's vengeance will be swift and unlooked-for.


	3. Tunalock & Johnemone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [This video clip](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dm98n3908QM) changed my life.

_John! Triple homicide past the reef!_ Sherlock darts to and fro, glimmering blue, puffing sediment in his wake. _Three cucumbers laid out in near-perfect halves. Nothing missing from the bodies, aside from a few scavenger bites, and no evidence of deployed defense mechanisms._

Startled out of a lazy waving afternoon, John bows a bit in empathy, his crown wincing. _Poor buggers. How neat are the lacerations?_

Sherlock gives an impatient tail-flip. _We'll know when we get there. Move your pedal disc!_

_All right, keep your finlets on, I'm moving._ It's well and good for a tuna to rush about, but seeing as how John doesn't have anything resembling fins or a bladder, Sherlock is just going to have to wait a tick. John curls his crown inward, tentacles retracting as his body gives a concentrated heave-ho. His basal disc pulls free without ceremony. Bit of a bother, really; finding a comfy spot without annoying neighbors can be a chore. _How far is it?_ he asks, lurching in Sherlock's general direction.

_Further than you travel in a week,_ Sherlock tells him briskly. He noses John's stalk in belated greeting, perfectly at ease despite the mass of poisonous tentacles contracting a fin's length away. _I'll take you for shrimp after. There's a new school in the area, your favorites._

_Sounds brilliant._ John wriggles enthusiastically, pumping himself along at a rather quick clip for an anemone—which is to say, a ponderous crawl for a tuna. _I'll let you find me prime seating._

_Naturally._ Sherlock swims in literal circles around John, unable to otherwise keep pace with his faithful polyp. _One of these days I really will figure out how to anchor you to my scales,_ he complains. _Fins are a far more efficient means of locomotion, not to mention less ungainly._

John effects a cheerful wag of his basal disc, unbothered. _Maybe you won't scare off my next shelled girlfriend. Jeanette let me hitch a ride sometimes._ And she'd been fairly adventurous for a hermit.

Sherlock rolls his near eye, and possibly the far one, as well. _I might point out, I was not actually present when she ended the relationship. Not a moment too soon, though._ He flicks his tailfin imperiously as he sweeps just ahead of John. _I was ready to throw myself at the nearest hook to escape the boredom._

Rippling with an airless sigh, John redoubles his efforts to keep up. _Believe me, I was ready to let you._


	4. Sherlock is a Taelon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short fusion with _Earth: Final Conflict_. (Ugh, it took forever to settle on the Taelonized names. I still don't think I like them.)

"...and tell the Companion to stay where we put him next time." Miniaturized on the handheld screen, Lestrade's face could pass for annoyed or resigned. Probably a bit of both. "He gets himself killed for real, where does that leave us?"

John's exhales shortly, having already argued with Sherl'oc about the very same topic. "Unemployed," he drawls, "and in my case, possibly vegetative. My'crof isn't a forgiving sort." God knows what would've happened if John hadn't followed that shuttle. He flexes his right hand, feeling the skrill's warm clutch at his wrist. "Don't suppose the pilot made it."

"No, he didn't. That was a hell of a shot." Lestrade's mouth is tight and grim. "We're already starting the investigation. If Hope really was one of ours, I want to know how he got through the psychiatric checkpoints. They're supposed to weed out the nutters."

"He was most assuredly a Volunteer, Detective Inspector," Sherl'oc puts in smoothly from his dais, pale hands tracing eloquent arcs before him. "I am contemplating lodging a formal complaint with the flight certification coordinator. In addition to the attempted assassination, I found the pilot's efficiency severely lacking."

John snorts his amusement. "Bloody awful cabbie," he adds agreeably, "even for London. But Greg's right, we've got to look into the screening process, see how he got through. Maybe somebody missed something."

"Someone always misses something," Sherl'oc remarks imperiously.

Lestrade gives John a dry look. "Good to hear he's in fine spirits. I've got to go, I'll talk to you later."

"Pints on me. Ta." John signs off and puts the handheld away, aware of Sherl'oc's blue, blue gaze riveted to him. "What?"

The Taelon steeples his long fingers. "'It.'"

"What?"

"I am not a 'he'," Sherl'oc says, enunciating the syllables just a shade too crisply. "I am an 'it'." 

John huffs and scratches absently at the CVI implant site. "I'm not bloody well calling you 'it'."

"The word does not convey what I am, of course, but your language is limited in many respects." Sherl'oc's hand wanders in a vague gesture of dismissal. "Many other cultures have already adopted alternative gender phrasing to accommodate us, but curiously, yours has not."

"Right. Which is why we generally go with 'he'."

Sherl'oc looks at him disapprovingly. "'He' is patently incorrect in the understood sense."

"Calling a person 'it' is rude, Sherl'oc."

"'It' is more precise when applied to me."

"Well, you're just going to have to put up with some courteous imprecision, because you're not an 'it'." When no response seems immediately forthcoming, John purses his lips. Right then. "Do you like tea?" he asks suddenly. "We're in the London embassy, got to be a kettle here somewhere."

Already absorbed in his holographic work interface, Sherl'oc doesn't miss a beat. "I dislike dairy products intensely. Sugar is acceptable."

John raises his brows, not really surprised, but oddly pleased. "We'll make an Englishman of you yet." 

Sherl'oc tips his head derisively and adjusts the glowing display before him. "Courteous imprecision may be overlooked, John, but there is no need to be insulting."


End file.
